


Aurora needs to find her Prince Charming

by Eaturspaghetti



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race UK RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, Fluff, everyone is rich
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:48:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29743827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eaturspaghetti/pseuds/Eaturspaghetti
Summary: Aurora finds herself wanting love, separate from the life she once had, she locks herself away.Tayce finds she wants to give her love away but is she the true love Aurora needs to break free?
Relationships: A'Whora/Tayce (Drag Race)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Aurora needs to find her Prince Charming

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on ao3, I was an original Wattpad stannie, I know I hate my past self too. I don't know how long this fic will be, as I'm just kinda free-balling BUT yeah, hope you enjoy it and ALSO please tell me if you have any suggestions about where the story should go. :) Thanks!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick SparkNotes summary of the starting plot:  
> Aurora and her dad were once really close but something has happened to cause them to grow apart, Aurora finds herself alienated at school, no longer hanging out with her friends. As she begins her final year of High school begins, Aurora realises she doesn't know where to go or what to do, lost in a sea of aspirations. She finds herself starting to hide from the media and gossip she once used to enjoy. Creating outfits and makeup looks to mask her inner feelings. Aurora thinks everything will be alright if she finds a Prince, someone who will save her from herself and answer all her unanswered questions. 
> 
> Tayce doesn't get rich kids, sure she's rich herself but she's a self-made woman. "From poor-to-riches" the Tabloid's like to say. She flaunts her designer bags and shoes with an air of importance. She doesn't get the act of flexing money and expensive wrist-watches you were given at birth. Tayce begins her first year outside of high school, continuing her rising career in the model industry. She is invited to take part in a modelling gig at an Elite School of Rich and Famous people. I wonder who she'll meet there....HMMMMM.

  
Aurora has always gotten everything she has ever wanted. It did not matter the price or size; if she wanted it, all it took was a pouty lip and a whiny question in that English accent pleading, "Daddy...don't you think I've earnt this…for being such a good girl?"

She had always been her Daddy's girl, even look wise, with his dirty-blonde hair, slowly receding with age, the hair strands losing their grip like torn-up Velcro. Aurora once had dirty-blonde hair too. In little ringlets which would escape out from pig or ponytails and rest near her ears or the nape of her neck. He would often play with her hair, swirling or curling curls in-between his fingers during Friday night movie sessions or school night bedtime stories. The heat of his hand against her cheek, the protective stare, and the common comment of "you're growing so fast, it was just yesterday when…," still lay on Aurora's mind. She hides them now, those dirty blond ringlets, under copious hair-bleaching, platinum blonde extensions and hair straighteners.

Her Father has not seemed to notice.

They have the same eyes too: a light, aquamarine blue, with streaks of green like islands, contrasting with the deep black of their pupils. It was often referred to, in the media, as their family's eye colour, the same light spring blue used in the banners and tablecloths, rugs and towels across their family mansion, especially during dinner parties, where even the napkins and wine glasses had to match. 

Aurora hated her eyes now. She couldn't even stare at a light source without looking like she was scowling or squinting, eyebrows furred. And last year in Biology, while studying the heredity of eye genes, her classmates kept calling them incestuous. "Well, who's having the incest if there were only people with brown eyes around!?" Aurora thought later, fixing smudged mascara from her bottom lash in the mirror of her school bathroom.

Besides the incestuous-eye-colour-situation, Aurora was quite popular at her school. It was a Private and Elitist High school, one where only the rich and influential could attend, where appearance and money mattered over your school grades, where if you were satisfactorily famous, you could get out of anything. A weird social hierarchy with even teachers involved assigning higher marks to students whose parents create the most noise. 

And although not being the richest, Aurora made up for it in her looks. She was always presentable, not a hair out of line, her outfits reaching the cover of magazines after she found them out of style. Aurora liked designing her outfits, trusting only herself to create garments that synched her body correctly, lined with perfect hems. She would imagine it would be something the late 1950's animated-movie character Princess Aurora would do. Sowing marvellous gowns and girdled corsets before her prick of a sleep-induced coma.

She liked to think her name was accurate to the caricature she wanted to display, a princess.

From a young age, Aurora would soak up the tales of fair ladies living in fanciful castles with their true majesties or of knights rescuing their damsels from evil dragons, taking them from pallor distresses.

The Drama. 

The Tragedy.

The Romance of it all.

These princesses of power, risking their lives all for the sake of true love and ending cliché-ly happily ever after.

Oh, how she yearned for it.

She would lie on her pink double bed, her fluffy, pink duvet and collection of matching pillows uplifting her as she doted over the idea of true love. She would gaze into the sheer sparkles of her canopy bed's pink curtains as if they were a collection of constellations that she could escape within.   
Sometimes she would pretend to be Princess Aurora herself, awaiting a prince to stumble upon her, locked away and sleeping in a tall tower, in a deep, deep sleep.

Because although Aurora gets everything she wants, although, she presents herself with an irresistible taste, although she receives gifts from admirers and likes on her Instagram. Aurora finds that she might always have to pretend. 

Deep down, she knows there is one thing she cannot seem to get now, even if it is the only thing she seems to need:

Love.

And perhaps a knight in shining armour to come with it.

And so, she awaits, shunning herself away behind the fire-breathing dragons and magical guards, behind secret doors and passageways, locked rooms, and tall towers. Too deeply dreaming in her pink, sparkly wonderland, or perhaps, too afraid to try to wake up.   


  


* * *

  


From how she presents herself, Tayce was a born to be model. Even without being dripped in the latest designer bags and outfits, fitted perfectly to her wirily frame and gliding down catwalks with gusts of confidence. 

It was her smile, emphasising the beauty and pain of her life: like the sweet taste of honey while stuck in a beehive, a sugar-coated bee sting. A smile of heartiness, yet heartache, droning the mind of passers-by, which reached into her eyes and tickled her cheeks to spout dimples. The famous smile that got her scouted, that saved her, in a way. A smile that sat fixed like staring eyes, glimmering against her diamond earrings, the shape of jellyfish. 

Why she wears those jellyfish earrings depends on the person you happen to converse: The hip-21st century Romanticists call it "a political rebut of any recent environmental disaster the government ignored." The tabloids say, "it's all to do with a secret cult which the young guru has found herself trapped in." The internet fanatics question if it's from a romance brewing between Tayce and a judge on her latest runway appearance. But Tayce's closest friend, Bimini, knows Tayce merely thinks, "they look nice." 

Tayce does not seem to mind the attention she receives from the world. Purposefully, she turns corners the paparazzi patrol or spends her time after runways talking to her supporters, taking photos, and accepting their love. In Tayce's mind, she's earned every bit of love, being a self-made woman. "An independent one. Though it may seem she works for a company, really, who is she kidding, they basically work for her. Have they seen these legs? This face? This smile?" Tayce half-smiles, thinking to herself, slowly sipping a pink lemonade, the ice melting quickly in the heat of the day. 

Tayce sits under the shade of an umbrellaed table, her long legs extending past the umbrella's shadow, highlighting the golden of her skin. Humid wind pretentiously blows strands of Tayce's long, black hair into her face, eyelashes and recently applied lip gloss catching hold of the hair. Blustered, she forcefully pulls the whirling hair back, strands rebutting against her hands, escaping her grip through lanky fingers, stubbornly resonant with the wind. She rebuts back, swiftly guiding the strays into a low ponytail.

With the wind comes the smell of fresh, vegan pastries and organic coffee grounds, which waft from the small café Tayce sits in. The clink of coffee cups and dirty dishes, soft ambient chatter, and clitter-clatter of studying students and office workers, on keyboards, emulating from the café, are a world away from Tayce, whose phone reminder chimes, reporting her next scheduled modelling gig. 

  


\- 9:00 AM - modelling gig. IMPORTANT! Do. Not. Miss. -

  


9:00 AM. She was well aware. 

If she stays here for another 10 minutes…and then begins to walk at about 8:50, she would be outside the building at approximately 8:55, and by the time she signs into the office, finds the room, and walks into the room, it would assumably be around 9:00 AM on the dot. Perfect...Or should she leave at 8:45, so she's at least 5 minutes early and leaves room for any mishaps that occur on the way? Okay. Well, now that you've been stressing, it's already nearly 8:40. We're leaving in5, okay? Okay. 

Dripped in as much black she could take on the 40-degree day, a sensible skirt, and a fitted crop-top, which effortlessly clung to her frame. She fidgets with her skirt fabric, smoothing down the sides and crossing her legs to stop the early-morning whistling catcallers. 

She looks back at her phone time. 8:41 AM. 

Tayce forces her head back up, taking a long look around, catching eyes staring, hungrily, as they pass. She tries not to give them attention, just a glimpse to see if they're attractive or not. That will be it. 

She looks back down at her phone time. 8:42 AM. 

Her forgotten pink lemonade, resting, neglected under the umbrellaed table, the melted ice, fading the pink colour, to a dilute pastel. 

Signing into her phone, she thumbs through her messages, her inbox a blur of words and emoticons, continuing to fall back to the most recent DM: A text from her agent.

She's already read it. It's just a reminder about the modelling gig and for a school at that. Subconsciously she begins playing with her skirt fabric again. "Why is she so nervous?" Tayce thinks, taking notice of her fidgeting. 

Tayce looks at her phone time again. 8:43 AM. She should go. 

Switching her phone off, Tayce tucks away her left-out things in her hand-bag. Swooping it up, she notices the pink lemonade. Reaching for it, Tayce is taken aback by the excessive, sweaty exterior of the cup, the pastel pink, dully toned, so diluted it appeared translucent. She turns her phone on again, quickly spinning on her toes as she exits the outside sitting area of the café. 8:45 AM.

Her eyes locked on her phone, double-checking her Google Maps info, seeming to be headed in the right direction when she smacked straight into someone. Her downturned head, bouncing directly off squishy tissue, the now diluted pink lemonade, slipping from Tayce's hand, plummeting to the concrete, causing lemon-water to splatter and splash between the individuals, the disposable lid and straw, flying off at the impact.  
Her bag and phone, now clutched securely in each of her hands, Tayce, without those hands to balance, lands butt first onto the concrete sidewalk. A simultaneous fumble to the ground followed by an "oomph," echoed past in Tayce's mind, still slightly shocked at the accident. 

A cold chill under Tayce awakes her from the daze. A spilt pink lemonade puddle lay in front of her, the discarded cup tipped and beginning to roll in the wind, the liquid curving paths below Tayce, slightly wetting her skirt, causing her to shiver uncomfortably. 

"You could have ruined them!" Tayce hears a heartbroken cry, almost a depressive moan. She looks up, only to look across, noticing a similarly situated girl on the opposite side of the pink lemonade puddle. Her face, neatly painted with a scowl, light-blue eyes piercing Tayce like daggers, seemingly eyeing her up…or squinting, Tayce could not decide. Her hair, almost platinum white in the sun, emphasising her poisonous eyes, truly Malfoy-esque. Hugged tightly between the girl's arm and chest are folded black dresses and suits, each in plastic dry-cleaner bags. The other arm outstretched before her, and Tayce realised then: the girl was addressing her. 

At first, Tayce ignores the statement, beginning to stand up, swinging her hand-bag back on her shoulder, brushing gravel off her backside, and squeezing drops of liquid out of the damp edge of her skirt. She silently picks up the loose lid, cup, and straw from the ground and into the bin, catching fleeting glances at the girl, who remains planted on the floor, her arms crossed, lipstick covered mouth in a pout. "What is she five?" thought, Tayce smiling slightly to herself. 

They lock eyes then. Tayce's warm brown into an icy blue, a fur coat in a blizzard: ice shards swiftly striving straight towards Tayce's heart, professed, protective fur-coat non-existent, to the strike. It was then that she momentarily caught a glance of the lush, green pockets which lived innately, crisp between the hostile blue: the evergreens of a snowy-scape. 

Tayce gives her the slight smile, reaching her free hand out, encouragingly, for the girl to take. She huffs in response, turning her head to hide a slight red tinge on her cheeks, dramatised by her sallow skin, but reluctantly taking Tayce's hand. Tayce finds the girl's hand surprising: toughened and calloused, with pinpricked scabs and scars, a slight mist of sweat hiding between her fingers leaking between Tayce's own.   
Tayce hoists the girl up, her expression remaining an irritated scowl as she begins to adjust herself, flatting her plaid skirt, straightening white, frilly socks, and shifting the matching-plaid bow tied to her collar. 

They'd dropped hands.

The slightly sweaty residue remaining on Tayce's, running her thumb across her newly misty fingers, she spots an impression left by the girl's French-tipped acrylics which slightly embedded themselves into the back of Tayce's hand, feeling the shaped grooves of the indents, as the girl begins to interrogate. 

"Do you realise you could have ruined my work?" An animated finger points accusingly towards the sky, the girl's body hunched slightly over but staring directly up at Tayce from the awkward height imbalance. Her body, jumping with every word, as though it encouraged her to continue, northern accent reaching through cracks of syllables. She asks, "I mean what kind of person do you think you are, what reason do you have, that you think you can just prance around on your phone, lost in your own world, on a busy sidewalk?" Tayce takes note of her expressive face: the way her eyebrows twitched and furrowed, raising themselves at the sound of the girl's rising voice. 

Tayce does not have a good reason. But taking notice of the increasing silence of their stand-held conversation, the girl tapping her foot against the ground impatiently. One eyebrow lifted as she death-glares into Tayce's soul. Dry-cleaning bags clutched ever tightly to the girl's chest, strangling the material of air, a blue vein popped and pulsing on her hand: Tayce decides to speak up. 

"I'm really sorry dear, I was trying to find my way to a…" A realisation passes through Tayce, going pallor in complexion, her eyebrows turning down. A slight gasp, reaching her lips. "My gig!" she almost shouts, jumping and turning her phone on once again. 

8:59 AM. Shit. 


End file.
